“Travis,” I breathed, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. “Travis Miller.”
He nodded, tears pooling in his eyes.
“You saved my life, Maya,” Travis whispered, his hand gently squeezing my shoulder. “I went to that program. I learned to code. I built a company. I became everything you told me I could be. And a year ago, when I finally had enough money and power, I hired private investigators to find you. I wanted to pay you back. I wanted to thank you.”
He swallowed hard, looking over at my parents with a look of absolute, lethal disgust.
“But when they found you,” he continued, “my investigators told me about them. They told me about the psychological abuse. The isolation. I realized you were drowning in the same kind of hell you pulled me out of. So, I set up a meeting with Chloe at a charity gala. I played the wealthy mark. I got inside the house. I just needed proof of the emotional abuse to help you get away.”
Travis looked back down at me, a tear slipping down his cheek, mixing with the blood on my face.
“I didn’t know they were going to hurt you,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry, Maya. I didn’t know it would take a wiretap to save you.”
The paramedics burst through the front door, pushing a stretcher laden with trauma gear.
As they quickly and efficiently moved me onto the backboard, strapping me down and placing an oxygen mask over my face, the chaos in the dining room reached a fever pitch.
My mother, realizing she was about to be dragged out of her perfect house in handcuffs in front of the entire wealthy neighborhood, completely lost her mind. She scrambled up from the floor, her hair wild, her designer dress wrinkled. She pointed a shaking, manicured finger at me as the paramedics lifted the stretcher.
